From Osgiliath to the End of All Ties
by Queen of the Weevils
Summary: A small fic about the RPG game ‘The Lord of the Rings: The Third Age’. It contains a few chapters covering Osgiliath, Pelennor Fields and beyond. Explores the Berethor/Idrial/Morwen storyline.
1. Departing Osgiliath

**_FROM OSGILIATH TO THE END OF ALL TIES_**

**A/N:** I once had this fic up on the website, but left it hanging for months because I had finished the game and was too lazy to get round to finishing it. Recently I replayed the game and decided to take down the story so I could edit it (hopefully for the better). At the moment, I'm fighting at Minas Tirith, and will add the next chapter once I've completed the game.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

**Description:** A small fic about the game 'The Lord of the Rings: The Third Age'. This story is a continuation (and alternate version) of the scene at the end of the 'Osgiliath' level, and beyond.

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**THE THIRD AGE: DEPARTING OSGILIATH**

Piercing shrieks and yells of dying men echoed around the city of Osgiliath. Orcs, trolls and a whole manner of other fell creatures swarmed the streets of the ruined citadel, where bodies of Gondorians and Orcs alike littered the ground. Faramir and his men had been overwhelmed by the host of Orcs and had been forced to flee. After rescuing Idrial from the Witch-king, Berethor's company had followed suit, departing on a crude Orc raft.

"It is Morwen for whom you are destined," Idrial said grudgingly, withdrawing Berethor's hand from where it lay on top of hers. She could not have anticipated the journey she was to experience when she had been sent, by the Lady Galadriel, to travel with this man. She could not have ever imagined she might find herself falling for him. And now, after the arrival of Morwen, it seemed that this 'budding romance' had been doomed from the beginning. Idrial was surprised to find herself saturated with jealousy as Berethor and Morwen grew closer as the Gondorian continued on his road of discovery.

Berethor impulsively caught the elf's arm when she turned to move away across the raft. "I will choose whatever fate pleases me. I am no toy of the Gods." His fierce, proud eyes confronted hers, daring her to speak out against him.

Idrial did not reply, but pulled her arm free of the Gondorian's grip and walked across the grimy wood to the other side of the Orc raft. Though she did not utter a word, Berethor could tell from her icy glare that she wished to be left alone. His smooth, proud face creased into a frown. He had guessed her feelings for him long ago in Moria, and gradually Berethor had admitted his own feelings to himself. But why could neither of them pluck up the courage to tell one another? He supposed one of the barriers preventing them was Morwen. The man and elf had been getting ever closer after the kiss in the dark halls of Moria, yet the arrival of the Maiden of Rohan had divided the company. Berethor, always one to give aid, had willingly offered to assist Morwen in her quest to locate her family and had unwittingly offended Idrial in the process. Women could be so hard to read!

Deciding it would be better to sort matters out sooner rather than later, Berethor was about to turn round when Hadhod, seeing his anguish, joined him where he stood upon the raft. "Women, eh?" the dwarf growled in an amused voice. "They're like a different species."

Berethor felt uncomfortable. Idrial was but a few inches away from them and in earshot of their conversation. "Err…" For once, the noble Gondorian was lost for words. He wholeheartedly agreed with this statement, but didn't wish to voice his opinion so close to the two women vying for his heart. He may be proud and slightly stuck-up, but he was no idiot.

Hadhod seemed not to notice his companion's embarrassment and aimless mumbling, and started a long conversation in his rough voice about dwarf women. The tall man standing next to him shifted uneasily as he felt the chance of repairing his friendship with Idrial slipping away. He had never felt this way before, with all these different emotions raging inside him. It was tearing him apart.

The night closed in around them, and soon not even the elf could see her slender hand waving about in front of her face. The smoky air was stifling, and Berethor felt suffocated. His armour, now a great burden to his weary self, was like a metaphor for his state of mind and the emotions rampaging through it; it weighed and slowed him down. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the Nazgûl's penetrating screech, and it turned his heart cold as memories of a distant curse plagued him.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and Berethor jumped out of his reverie. He was not entirely surprised to find that Hadhod had left him to speak with Elegost, who was considerably more talkative than the troubled Gondorian. He jerked around and, to his surprise but great delight, came face to face with the last person he had expected. Idrial.

During the time Berethor had been agonising over the whole situation, Idrial had not been enjoying the 'view'. She too had been thinking it all over while trying to avoid eye contact with Morwen, who had been smirking at her for the entire duration of the ride on the raft. "You remember your first encounter with the Ringwraiths," she said knowingly, with a nod. Then she sighed, and, removing her hand from his back, added sympathetically, "You feel cold."

"I feel his blade. The pain of the old wound does not falter; I feel it when he screams." Berethor let out a great sigh and looked at his feet, feeling ashamed of his weakness and his betrayal in the past. It was the greatest of his burdens, and he knew that it would remain with him for the rest of his life, niggling at his mind and conscience.

Idrial shot him a pitying look, hesitated for a moment, and then set her hand upon his.

A foul wind started up, sweeping an oily scent towards them. Far off, towards the direction of Osgiliath, the company could hear the faint sounds of battle cries and the squeaking of metal upon metal. Mordor's army marched towards Minas Tirith. The six people aboard the raft feared the City of Kings would already be engulfed by the tens of thousands that wished to destroy it, before they reached the White City.

But, as fear gripped the hearts and minds of the free folk inhabiting Middle Earth, one stayed blissfully immune, just for a while. Idrial felt a warm feeling in her stomach, and a flicker of a smile crossed her sharp, aloof features. The shield around her heart crumbled, and fate, usually so hard to divert, took a different course.

"If we survive this war, could I see you again? For it is all that my heart hopes for," Berethor enquired quietly, unsure of himself.

"We'll see," the she-elf replied, smiling awkwardly. It was so unusual for her, yet she felt that she was walking into uncharted territory. She felt shy, and afraid.

Berethor opened his mouth, intending to spill his heart and admit his feelings for her. But no sound came out. So much time he had spent rehearsing what he would say to her; things he would never be able to bring himself to tell her. He could talk on for hours, yet he just couldn't get to the point and say the three words that mattered; I love you.

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	2. Fallen Warrior

**_FROM OSGILIATH TO THE END OF ALL TIES_**

**A/N:** God, I've been so bogged down by exams recently I haven't had time to breathe, let alone finish the game and write. Anyways, just finished the game a couple of hours ago! The final boss battle was pretty lame though, I mean, how the hell did they manage to get up to the top of Barad-dûr anyway? Well, I hated what happened on Pelennor Fields. I was half yelling at the screen, "Yes, Morwen is going to die!" and then of course, Aragorn just _had_ to step in and heal her. Darn you, Aragorn.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything to do with LOTR. If I did, Idrial and Berethor would be together, and Morwen would be several feet under the ground.

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**THE THIRD AGE: FALLEN WARRIOR**

The Battle of Pelennor Fields was drawing to a close. Some meters away, the greenish glow emitted by the Army of the Dead could be seen, where the dead warriors swarmed over the remaining Orcs like maggots and flies. Slaughtered Gondorians, Rohirrim, Orcs, Wargs, Easterlings and giant Mûmakil scattered the barren plains which were splattered with blood; the earth was now permanently scarred by the tracks of machines of war. The sky was blackening - no longer did the Sun cast her rays across the devastation; no longer would she drive away the dark. Night had come out to play, granting evil a share of his power, so it may execute its terrible will. In sight of the Mountains of Shadow a doomed fight had taken place, where a band of six warriors had struggled against the Nazgûl. Evil's will had been done, and now five of the company gathered around the fallen Maiden of Rohan.

"Morwen!" Berethor cried out in anguish, armour squeaking as he dropped to his knees next to his injured friend. She looked lovingly up into his brown eyes, her breathing ragged. The light in her eyes was fading. Her life was failing. Every second brought her closer to death; every second took her further from him.

Hadhod hung his head, and leant on his axe, letting out a great sigh. So far they had come together, so close were they to the end of their quest, and one of their party were to be torn away from them, mercilessly. The dwarf hadn't been particularly close to the Maiden, preferring the company of Elegost the Ranger. Yet, as she slipped away, he, normally so stout, felt drained and weak. Eaoden, behind him, was shifting uneasily upon his feet, respectfully silent. And Elegost, the resourceful ranger, stood stiffly by Hadhod's side, numb, and at a complete loss of what to do. Idrial, meanwhile, stood a good distance away, eyes fixed upon the events unfolding before her. She wondered whether she should interfere; yet she knew her magic was limited, her last energy spent on battling the Nazgûl. She would only succeed in adding a few minutes more to Morwen's life, and those worthless seconds would be spent in pain. The power of greater Elves was too far away to call upon, and the King had departed westwards towards his City to make counsel with Gandalf and his comrades** (1).**

"Berethor..." wheezed Morwen, as she attempted to raise her hand to his face. The Gondorian wrapped his arms around her, and tenderly cradled the woman as though she was but a babe.

He turned his head to the others. "Is there nothing we can do?"

Elegost shook his head regretfully, approached the man and set his hand upon his shoulder. "The King would have been able to save her. It is said he is a great healer. Yet Aragorn has already made his way across the Fields towards Minas Tirith." One solitary tear made its way down his face as he squeezed the other man's shoulder.

"I won't allow her to die," growled Berethor. "We cannot just give up on her. Idrial, you saved me from the Nazgûl once before, when we first met. Please, do the same for her. I beg it of you."

Idrial knelt by Morwen and took her calloused hand in her smooth one. There was nothing that could be done. Her wound was grievous, and the elf was too fatigued to call upon her elven magic. She felt so powerless: never before had she felt so exhausted, and she hated it. Idrial could do nothing, and she detested herself for it. Foolishly had she wasted her strength on countless orcs, and then to be weakened by the shadow power of the Ringwraiths. Idrial cursed herself. She was an elf! Why had she tired so quickly? "I cannot." Often had she quarreled with Morwen, out of jealousy. She regretted it now, when it was too late to make amends.

"At least _try_!" he begged, in a despairing voice. "I did not come this far to lose one of you at the last test. There has to be something – _anything_ - that we can do!" Berethor's company was silent as his eyes scoured each one of them for an answer. Their eyes flickered to the ground, unwilling to meet his. So fierce was his hope they had not the courage to quash it. Yet the Gondorian was no fool; he gained his answer quickly from their silence, and was crushed by it. "There is...nothing... I can't just... I..."

Morwen was still where she rested in Berethor's arms. She had left Middle-Earth to join those of the Otherworld. There she would find her family, who were unduly ripped from her life not so long ago. Her eyes, once so full of fire, were blank. All the sorrow and pain had disappeared from her face, which was now peaceful. She looked so, so young.

"God, no…" groaned Berethor.

Idrial released the dead woman's hand, and stood suddenly. She turned from them, before they could witness her tears. The ties that bound the group together ran so deep it overrode her dislike of Morwen, and she shared Berethor's sorrow. Without a word she took her leave, and began her journey across the plains to the City of Kings, which still dominated the surrounding landscape, standing proud despite its many hurts. There she could escape the stifling silence; there she could disappear into the hordes of people, and remain unseen in her grief.

The Great Darkness which had overshadowed the Fields of Pelennor was retreating over them, returning to the land whence it came. Yet the Sun did not shine, for it was night, but the work of Evil was stalled for now. The battle was won, although none of Berethor's band felt like celebrating. Five remained, and the War of the Ring was not yet over. How many of their party would endure till the end? Aloof from death had they remained, until today. Now it seemed so close, so real.

Eaoden broke the silence, and said with a wavering voice, "I now must make my way to the City, for I have to find Éomer." When nobody replied, he left the three and followed the path Idrial had taken minutes before. Hadhod and Elegost, lost in their own grief, waited for their friend who still kneeled upon the ground, still clinging to Morwen. She was so cold, already.

Finally, Berethor stood, with Morwen in his arms. He turned to them, and said, "I will carry Morwen's body back to the City. My quest is still not over: I set out to find Boromir, yet without knowing it I started out upon another journey that has lasted for almost a year. It is coming to an end, and I still have one last errand, and that is to serve the King until the end of the War. I do not demand that any of you follow me."

Elegost shook his head slowly, and told him, "I joined your quest third, my friend, and I shall not end my part prematurely. I will journey with you till the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth win this war, or perish."

Hadhod straightened and added, "Aye, count me in."

Berethor smiled his thanks. His lips did not smile joyfully, but sadly. For many days yet neither smile nor laugh would be of mirth: the wound of loss was too raw. He then said, "We must off, to the City of Kings."

And so the three made their way to Minas Tirith together, where they would set out with the others of their company, on the last stage of their quest, and to the ruin of Sauron.

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**(1)** For the sake of this fic, Aragorn did not fight against the Nazgûl alongside Berethor's company.

**A/N:** Can't make any promises about the next (and final) chapter. Should be up sometime in the next month!


	3. Vigil

**_FROM OSGILIATH TO THE END OF ALL TIES_**

**A/N:** Here's the penultimate for you. Sorry it took so long. I don't know when I'll complete the last part; but hey, summer holidays are coming up – there's always too much spare time in those, so if I don't get it done before the start of them, I'll definitely have it finished by the end of them!

**Disclaimer:** As always, I own nothing. Ioreth is in "The Return of the King", she isn't my creation.

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**THE THIRD AGE: VIGIL**

Berethor, as he had for the last few days, stood by the bed of his sleeping friend. His fists were clenched; blood trickled through his fingers from where his nails had dug into his palms, tearing the skin. He needed to _feel _something. Stiffly had he stood, for hours, numb and in denial. He thought of nothing, he felt nothing and he did nothing. His manner was so empty, his skin so devoid of colour, his body so still, he resembled a statue. From dawn till dusk, from the hour he woke till the hour he lay down to sleep, he stood by her bed, in the Houses of Healing. The cold, stone walls were bathed in the eerie moonlight, no longer made a fiery gold by the flames in the fireplace, for they had long gone out. As a consequence the air was now bitterly icy, chilling him. But he still couldn't feel anything. He was just numb.

_The Black Gate loomed __over them, as intimidating as it was strong. Overhead the Nazgûl tore at the flesh of the Eagles, while Sauron watched his minions cut down the King and his allies. Amidst the crush of warriors did a band of five fight, tight-knit and determined; three men, an elf and a dwarf. How close Frodo was to the completion of his task they did not know; how long they had to live they were unsure. The only thing they knew was they all had to survive, for the sake of their state of minds. They could not lose another of their party. Yet none of them were aware of what fate had in store; none of them knew that Death was to come for one of them, very soon._

_Elegost whipped another arrow from his quiver, nocked it, and shot yet another orc, while Hadhod, always by his side, smote one over the head with his axe. Eaoden danced around his enemies with great agility, avoiding every sword swung his way, while swiping at the opposition with his long spear. Berethor, eyes wild, chopped __orc after orc down, unrelenting in his cold rage. Idrial called upon the Spirit of Water, blasting her foes to the Otherworld with no regrets. Unwounded they remained, but the clock was ticking…_

The City was quiet. Every soul but one was slumbering. His eyelids would occasionally flicker shut, before being forced open by a stern will to stay awake, to watch over her. Berethor would not leave her, until sleep finally took him, when he would collapse onto the hard floor. And then, just several hours later, the Gondorian would wake again, to resume his vigil by her bedside. The other members of his company had only visited once, preferring to keep away and leave their zombie-like leader to his grief. They wandered the streets of Minas Tirith, never leaving one another's side, but never talking, just letting their feet guide them, while their minds dwelled on lost friends.

Berethor reached out with his hand, and took Idrial's. She looked so peaceful, and at ease. If only she could smile at him again, and fill the terrible void within him, in which his life force drained away. But no smile played upon those chapped lips, and had not for days.

"_Idrial!" yelled Berethor, in despair, as an orc, unseen by he__r, raised its club into the air with the intent to end her life. He brought the hunk of crudely cut wood down upon her head with such ferocity and force that she stood no chance. Elegost, dropping his bow, rushed to her, catching her before she fell to the ground to join the other countless corpses. Eaoden and Hadhod still fought on, unaware of the elf's fate. Berethor stalled, shoulders slumped, with his arms hanging limp by his side. He just stared._

_Although Elegost, despite the devastation around him and the overwhelming grief, still kept his mind, and was wise enough to press his fingers against the elf's neck, to confirm her death. But, there! A pulse! Weak, but still there. "Berethor!" he shouted, grinning, "She's still alive! Idrial's still –"_

_The ranger never finished his sentence; blood spurted from his mouth, and the life fled from his eyes. The very orc who had knocked Idrial out had discarded his club, and had stolen a dead man's sword, to plunge it through Elegost's torso. The blade had found his lungs. And now he set his eyes upon Idrial once again, to draw more blood from her, to suck the life out of her by his cruel hand. A hand only meant to kill._

_Berethor, and Eaoden and Hadhod, who now were fully aware of the fate of their friends, stood, all __immobilised in their horror. Their weapons were held loosely in their hands, forgotten. The only people in the world, apart from them, were Idrial and the orc. No battle raged around them, no evil lord looked upon them. There was no Ring. No hobbit. No mountain. No Mordor. No Gondor. No Middle-Earth. Just them. Only them._

_As if something clicked in all their heads simultaneously, the trio gripped their weapons__ tighter, and as if in silent agreement, took their revenge. __The Gondorian charged over, sword raised, and in one fluid movement brought it down upon the orc's head, splitting it in two, while Hadhod hacked at the creature's legs, and Eaoden stabbed him through the lungs with his spear. Every wound they inflicted, every droplet of blood they drew invigorated them, and they chopped and hewed away until there was nothing left of that orc; until only lumps of dirty meat lay upon the ground. And it felt good._

He sighed, and let go of her hand, and, for the first time in four days, moved from her bed, and hesitated by the doorway. It was another world, outside of her room. Should he leave? Would she die, if he wasn't there to guard her? For days he had kept up his vigil. Now he found he was helpless himself; he could not leave. He could not tear himself away. Berethor was mentally chained. The world outside of Idrial's room was cut off from him.

Berethor put his head in his hands. Life was cruel. And he was fed up. Tired of simply following fate, letting it play with him; letting it rule him. He was exhausted; he had spent too long stifling his emotions, controlling his stance, forcing his face to stay grave and unrevealing.

This time, he didn't stop the tears. He clenched his fists, and yelled.

--

All around them did the people of Gondor rejoice in the streets; singing, dancing. And in one lonely doorway did a man and a dwarf sit, separated from it all. There was no joy in their hearts. Hadhod had, quite literally, spoken no words since the death of his friend Elegost. And Eaoden had given up trying to start up a conversation. The duo had walked the streets of the City of Kings in silence, devastated by the events of the last day of their quest. They had kept away from Berethor, and his ward. He seemed to have lost all sense of reality. He had barely acknowledged the ranger's death, dwelling on Idrial, and his belief that he had failed her.

Hadhod, on the other hand, could not think of anything else other than Elegost. His mind kept replaying his death. Over, and over, and over again.

He had never been afraid of the world. He had always known his way, and had often wandered the old roads with his friend.

Now, he felt lost.

Eaoden had joined Berethor's party last. His relationships with the other members were not as strong, for they had not known him as long, and had not experienced as many hardships with the warrior of Rohan by their side as they had with Elegost and Morwen. For a while he simply felt he was tagging along. He never did truly 'merge' with the rest of them.

He felt separated. He felt alone. It didn't seem, now, that he would ever fuse with his companions. The company was broken, and as every second passed he grew even further away.

He sighed, loudly. Hadhod twisted suddenly around to face his companion, as though he had only just noticed he was there. Neither said anything, letting the silence reign while their eyes searched one another's weary faces. Hadhod's face creased slowly into a frown, as though he was struggling to decipher a difficult puzzle.

"You are not the only one who grieves, Hadhod," whispered Eaoden, his voice soft and tentative, testing the waters. He couldn't read the dwarf's gruff face, and was unsure where he stood with him.

Hadhod did not reply, but continued staring, as though he waited to hear what Eaoden would say next.

Eaoden waited too.

The dwarf's mouth twitched slightly, realising it was his turn to speak. But he didn't. Instead, he reached out his hand, and grasped Eaoden's, squeezing tightly.

They both smiled.

--

Berethor sat upon the windowsill of Idrial's room, watching the Sun rise. It was a new day. It was also the one week anniversary of the battle at the Black Gate, of Elegost's death, and of Idrial's injury. She still had not woken. The Gondorian was rapidly losing hope. The new King of Gondor had visited a number of times to check for any progress made on her road to recovery, or to look for any sign that she was close to wakening. No such development had occurred, and now Berethor feared his friend would never wake up.

He looked down at his hands, and traced the lines with his finger, troubled. He had known when he had begun his quest that injury and loss was inevitable and unavoidable, but it didn't make the pain any easier when it happened. Berethor wished he could turn back the clock and take a different path, on which he would not have met Idrial, and the others, so that maybe they might still be alive and unharmed now. But he couldn't change anything now, Morwen and Elegost were dead, and Idrial was slipping away. All he could do was wait, and watch how things played out because he was powerless to intervene.

"Berethor?"

Berethor jumped, and hope and happiness blazed through him, a flood of relief, a feeling that his time spent by her bedside had not been wasted.

He turned around.

His joy was snuffed out, like a candle in the wind.

Ioreth, an elderly woman who served in the House, stood at the door, waiting for a verbal recognition of his knowing of her presence. She, the only soul who dared enter the chamber of the slumbering elf and her guardian, was slightly hesitant, unsure of whether to pass through the doorway. She had seen the fleeting look of anger upon his face, which now radiated disappointment and sadness. A face lined by war and sorrow.

"My Lord?" the wise-woman of Gondor said. As she had every morning for the past week, she had brought him his breakfast.

How could he have mistaken her for Idrial?

Unnerved by his unrelenting gaze, she set his food down upon the oak table on her side of the room, and left hastily.

Nobody wanted to be near him anymore.

Idrial was never going to wake up. He had to face that. He had to face that before he died from the sorrow.

His friends wouldn't wait for him forever. He knew they'd eventually give up on him. They had their own grief, their own troubles; they had their own paths they had to take. And he had his. But what was his path? So sure of it he had always been, yet now it seemed the way forward was lost to him.

Berethor left his place by the window, and crossed the room to the door. One step at a time, as the saying went. Darkness shrouded his path, but he at least knew the next step that he must take. The rest would, hopefully, reveal themselves in time.

It was a simple action to undertake. Physically, anyway.

All he had to do was step outside the door. Leave her room. Leave her behind.

Simple.

He turned round to look at her, one last time. The deathly pallor of her face made the silver tiara, set upon her golden brown locks of hair, look a dark grey.

She was dead. _Dead._ She would never wake up from her coma.

"...Goodbye, Idrial."

He took the step, and left her room.

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End file.
